


honey

by figure8



Category: EXO (Band), K-pop
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Service Top, Tenderness, cannot stress the porn with feelings tag enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 07:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20131537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: It's the other way around, usually.





	honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hanguang-jacked (nasaplates)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasaplates/gifts).

> do not even LOOK in my direction i have never had a SINGLE feeling

It’s the other way around, usually. Yixing holding Yifan down, palm burning hot against his nape, hold locked strong around Yifan’s wrists, pressing him into the mattress, driving into him until Yifan has been reduced to nothing but a symphony of moans and pleas. This game they play, it ends with Yifan on his knees more often than not, in more ways than one—metaphorically, physically, sometimes both at the same time. 

Sometimes Yixing wants to let go. Sometimes he cracks, he gives in and the tension in his spine leaves all at once, the fight escapes his body—the elegant line of his shoulders snapping like the string of a taut bow. It’s Yifan’s turn then to put him back together. It’s Yifan’s turn to take care of him. It’s Yifan’s _ responsibility. _

Yixing is smaller. Yifan lets him be bigger, lets him domineer, lets himself be held captive; but objectively Yixing is smaller. Like this, Yifan above him, bracketing him in his arms, it’s undeniable and it’s dizzying. One meter seventy-seven of solid muscle and pure concentrated will mellowed by Yifan’s presence, soft suddenly under him—_pliant. _

Yixing threads careful fingers through Yifan’s long black hair, brings him closer until their noses are grazing and the oxygen between their lips is warm because it’s shared. They kiss in that lazy way, that teenage way, like they used to do in the EXO-M dorms in silent darkness, in secret. It’s still a secret but it doesn’t feel like one anymore, it doesn’t weigh on Yifan’s shoulder like the world. It’s a welcome weight now, heavy blanket, enveloping. Yixing opens his mouth and Yifan licks his way in, wet and real. Body versus body and nothing but knowledge between them; they both know each other and they both know their own want, and that, especially, is what makes the whole thing work like a well-oiled machine. 

Yixing sighs when the first finger breaches him, knuckle deep. Yifan presses his lips to the hollow of his throat in soothing apology, once, twice. When Yixing is fucking him there’s a stream of words that follow, descriptive and filthy and blazing. Yifan prefers working in silence. He’s not good at narration, knows he’s better with his hands. His hands can tell stories. His hands can convey meaning. In the room the only sound reverberating is the squelch of lube, rhythmically, Yixing’s soft _ ahs _an echo. 

Two fingers, then three, and then Yifan finds what he’s been looking for and suddenly he’s not opening anymore but prodding, pressing, and Yixing arches off the bed in a strangled groan.

“There. Fuck—_Yifan_—there, don’t stop.”

But Yifan has to stop. As tempting as Yixing looks like this, sprawled under him, cheekbones flushed and sweat-slicked bangs plastered to his forehead, as _ inviting _ as he looks, and as easy as it would be to just get him off like this, on Yifan’s fingers begging and begging and untouched; Yifan is here for something else. Promised him something else. He always keeps his promises. 

When he removes his fingers Yixing honest to God whines, which he almost never does. It’s a delightful sound. It makes Yifan’s stomach twist, tighten, his own desire a pillar of fire. 

Yixing opens his eyes as Yifan straightens up to grab a condom. On his face Yifan spots the shadow of a smirk. 

“You gonna fuck me, big boy?”

“If you want me to,” Yifan says, slicks himself up. 

“Yeah,” Yixing spreads his legs further, makes space for him. “I do. Want you to.” He runs a hand down Yifan’s chest, the faint definition of his abs. It’s appreciative, but it’s also tender. _ Come here, _ wordlessly. _ Come here, I want you. _

And Yifan does come, here, closer. Kisses him, close-mouthed this time. Yixing follows him up when he breaks it. 

It’s boring, supposedly. Missionary sex, it’s supposed to be boring—dated, uninventive, or something. They have “not-boring” sex often enough for Yifan to call bullshit. There is nothing routine about being able to watch Yixing’s face as Yifan slides home. He bites his bottom lip in concentration, holds his breath, eyes wide open and dark and glistening. It never gets old. 

“Good boy,” Yixing sighs, hand wrapping around the back of Yifan’s neck, thumb rubbing circles like it’s _ Yifan _who needs reassurance right now. “Good boy, just like that.” 

Maybe he does.

Yifan rolls his hips slowly, tentatively. It serves two purposes: one, Yixing likes it slow, likes it building up gradually, likes challenging his own patience. Two, he’s tight and hot and _ tight _ around Yifan and _ slow _is all Yifan can do in order not to blow his load right there and then. But that’s less poetic than the first reason, so he keeps that one to himself. 

“_Good boy_,” Yixing repeats, murmurs. His hand is guiding, a gentle pressure. Yifan hides his face against the side of his neck, cheeks burning. That, too, never gets old: the knot forming in his gut at the praise that drips from Yixing’s mouth like syrup, sticky-sweet. “Come on, baby. Fuck me. I know you want to go harder. You can.” 

Permission unleashes something. He wants more. He wants more of Yixing’s approval but he also wants him reduced to wordless shouts, too blissed out to form coherent sentences. For that he needs him on his hands and knees, and for that to happen he has to ask, and asking breaks this carefully constructed equilibrium they have here—Yixing asks, Yifan answers. 

He asks. Large hands like brands on Yixing’s hips, sure to leave loving bruises, he brings Yixing down on his cock and tears the most beautiful moans from his lips and ask, _ can we—can you turn around—I want— _

Like that it’s easier to just take. Rough and methodical, grip back where it belongs, marks inverted. Fire builds within, ravaging. He feels it everywhere; in his limbs, licking up his spine, tendrils along his jaw like a lover's caress. Yixing has fallen on his elbows from the strength of his thrusts, body moving forward in staccato, metronome. His hands are gripping the bed sheets so tight his knuckles have turned bright white. He’s still quiet, but that’s expected—he’s always quiet. The muffled grunts are enough for Yifan. He knows how to decipher them. 

“Fuck,” Yixing grits out after what feels like an hour, and Jesus, the stamina on this man. Yifan is too competitive for this. “_Fuck_, baby, Yifan, I’m almost there.” 

He didn’t say _ touch me, _ so Yifan doesn’t, amps up his rhythm again, shifts his angle. _ That _earns him a choked surprised cry, and he smiles, satisfied and fond. He likes fucking like this almost as much as he likes being able to look Yixing in the eye because this way he can kiss his shoulder, pepper him with kisses, press his face there and inhale. 

“I’m close,” he mumbles against Yixing’s skin. “Please.”

“Yes,” Yixing hisses, raises a hand to blindly card his fingers through Yifan’s hair again, grab whatever he can for purchase as his body arches, “Fuck, yes—”

Yifan feels him come. Clamping up, tight like a vice all of a sudden, spasming. His arms shake. Yifan drapes an arm around his front to hold him up while he rides his orgasm, senses his own knocking at the door, a voice calling him from the next room, so so so so close—

When the coil unfurls he bites Yixing at the junction of his neck like some sort of demented vampire, reflexively. Yixing grunts but doesn’t complain, his hold on Yifan’s hair tighter. 

Yifan thinks he hears _ good boy _ again, isn’t sure. Savors it all the same, soaks in it, happy, serene as the tension in his veins turns liquid.

In bed after they lie at a respectable distance. Even with the AC the atmosphere is humid, heavy. Yixing trails fingers down Yifan’s bicep in lieu of embrace. The achy tenderness of it gets Yifan like an uppercut. Even when they are apart for months he feels the phantom of Yixing’s touch exactly for this reason—because it is meaningful and small and meaningful because it is small, because it is fleeting and furtive. 

“Come closer,” he mutters. “Fuck the heat, ‘want to hold you.” 

Yixing chuckles in the semi-darkness. His laugh is light like the breeze on a summer night.

He rolls over.


End file.
